I’ve been inside his apartment every time he’s left for work and know the spices he never uses sit in the left cabinet in the kitchen. Towels on the second shelf in the bathroom. Living room window on the fire escape doesn’t lock properly. Three pairs of scrubs in rotation. He leaves at the same time every morning since switching off night shifts, green backpack over his shoulder, riding that bike that’s one flat tire from the junkyard.
I’m past the point of normal when it comes to him. Way past.
I hit play on “Kosandra”by Miyagi and Andy Panda and let the music drown out the quiet.
I keep one hand on the wheel and take the turns faster before I can think too much about it.
He doesn’t ask again and stays quiet most of the ride, watching the road, holding his breath every time I cut across lanes.
He really isn’t street-smart. He got in the car with me after I pulled a gun on him the first time we met. Has no idea what kind of man he just trapped himself in a car with. What kind of person does that?
Someone who sees the best in people even when they shouldn’t. Someone who’s going to get himself killed if I’m not watching.
I can’t make sense of him. Can’t decide if it’s naivety or something worse. Maybe he has a death wish. Maybe he’s running from something and doesn’t care what catches him.
Doesn’t matter. This really should be the last time I see him. Drop him off, drive away, let him disappear into his normal life while I go back to mine.
I turn onto his block and pull into the same spot I’ve used every night for the past week. The one with the clear sight line to his window. The one where I can see when his lights go off at night.
“Yeah, not creepy or anything that you know where I live or whatever, but um, thanks for driving me home.”
He has no clue.
I nod, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel.
He waits like he thinks I’m going to say something else, but when I don’t, he sighs and reaches for the door handle.
I grab his wrist. He flinches, confused, a little scared.
“Give me your phone.”
“What? Why?”
“So I can put in my number.”
He hesitates, then pulls out his phone. I take it and add my number, sending myself a text so I have his contact. Even thoughI already do. I’ve had his number saved for a week. Pulled it from the clinic records the day after I met him.
“If you ever need anything or get into trouble, call me.”
He doesn’t move for a long moment. Then his hand covers mine on the console, and my gaze snaps to his mouth, catches on his lip between his teeth, then drops to his hand covering mine.
His thumb shifts against my fingers, brushing over my tattoos.
Wrong. Sowrong. I can’t move, can’t breathe. My chest feels clogged. I hate the way it sparks through me, hate that I don’t rip my hand back, hate that a touch this soft can hold me completely still.
I’m terrified of how much I want more. I’ve been stabbed, shot, beaten half to death. None scared me like this does. Because those wounds close eventually. This one just keeps getting deeper.
He opens his mouth and then closes it. My eyes snap up to his.
“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you lived. I was wondering—I mean, there was so much blood, and I thought that maybe you died after you left.”
His voice does something to me. Soft, genuine concern I don’t know what to do with.
“I didn’t.”
He bites his lip, and I track the movement. “Yeah, I can see that now.” He pauses. “Did you at least get checked out?”
I shake my head.
